


But Baby It's Cold Outside

by itstartswith_aardvark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, M/M, My son doesn't get enough love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstartswith_aardvark/pseuds/itstartswith_aardvark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few winter SamSteve drabbles to beat the heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Baby It's Cold Outside

Steve mutters an apology to the third driver he cuts off that night and eases his foot off the gas ever so slightly. He doesn't mean to speed, but he has somewhere to be and every second it takes to switch on his blinker makes him later. He had promised to be home at nine thirty and it's nine forty five. Sam never held a grudge, but that didn't mean he didn't try to be on time. Naturally he hits every red light on the street. What feels like an eternity later he pulls into his parking spot and stumbles out of the car, tugging his grocery bag along with him. The freezing air punches straight through his jacket and chills him to the bone. The temperature had dropped out of nowhere and it was supposed to snow that night. To his glee he doesn't encounter anyone clear up the elevator and onto his floor. It takes him another two minutes to fiddle with the temperamental lock and by the time he makes it into the warm apartment it's almost ten.  
"Was starting to think you stood me up. Almost started without you," Sam calls from the kitchen. The smell of popcorn carries on the warm air and chases the cold away. He shucks his coat and shoes off and seeks the warmest part of the house; Sam's embrace in its sweatshirt and pajama pants perfection. He breathes him in, the fresh scent of soap and butter from the popcorn.  
"If it's any consolation I brought double stuffed Oreos," when he pulls back he pecks the softest of kisses of Sam's cheek and basks in the glory that beams from his smile.  
"Double stuffed," he pretends to scoff but takes the bag to the kitchen and Steve goes to change clothes. It's Saturday night; movie night. But most of all it's a Saturday in November, meaning it's cold outside and everything smells like pumpkin spice; perfect conditions for cuddling. Most nights they were able to restrain it to just that, but one in every four escalated to the bedroom. Steve isn't sure which tonight will be. "It's your turn to pick." Sam calls from the kitchen.  
"I get to pick even though I was late?"  
"And you'd better hurry and do it before I change my mind."  
"Wow, blessed twice in one night by Sam the merciful. I must special," he muses, strolling into the living room and settling into the corner of the sectional. He knows Sam'll pretend to gripe at his taking the biggest space but in the end he likes being the little spoon. Sure enough he comes out of the kitchen with a small bowl of Oreos and a big scowl.  
"And what the hell is this? You think just cause you brought Oreos you can hog the whole couch?" Steve grins up at him and pats his thigh expectantly.  
"You can be the little spoon," he offers.  
"The nerve of some people," Sam mutters to himself just loudly enough for Steve to hear him as he settles himself onto the couch; his back against the arm and the rest of him stretched across Steve's lap, laid perpendicular to him. This way he could lay his head on his shoulder and swipe the popcorn right out of his hands as he brought it to his mouth.  
"You never did pick,"  
"How about the little mermaid?" Sam groans.  
"We've watched it three times this month. Princess and the frog."  
"Deal." By the time it's half over Steve's got the feeling it'll be one of _those_ nights. But when he turns to Sam to start trouble he's fast asleep. He's so precious when he's dreaming, so he lets him sleep. It's only a matter of time before he's dozing off, too, but before long a sleepy voice wakes him.  
"Steve?"  
"Hmm?"  
"I had a dream."  
"What about?"  
"Dreamed you took me to Jamaica."  
"That was definitely a dream."  
"Why can't we go?"  
"Because, have you-" as soon as he's ready to give the four-point speech he gives every time Sam starts talking about going to Jamaica he hears a flutter of a snore and he's dropped back off to sleep. He plants a kiss on his forehead and snuggles back into the couch to finish the movie.  
"We'll go one day," he says softly, more to himself than to Sam. "I promise." Suddenly Sam speaks and nearly gives him a heart attack.  
"I'm holding you to that."

* * *

"I brought you some coffee, even put a little sugar in it," Steve coos softly to the bundle of blankets on the couch as he comes around the side. He gets silence as a response. "Sam? You still with me?" He chuckles as he sits the mug on the table and snuggles close to him. Only his eyes are visible from his fleece cocoon and they're glaring holes into Steve's loving embrace.  
"Yeah, laugh it up, I'm just dying of hypothermia. No big deal. Better go pick me out a plot, given the ground isn't frozen solid." His voice is muffled under the layers of blankets but the irritation can be heard loud and clear.  
"It's not even that cold, it stopped snowing an hour ago." It had snowed for two days straight and the heat in their apartment went out halfway through the first day. Steve, having grown up in Brooklyn, was fine. A coat and a thick pair of socks was all he needed. Sam on the other hand swore he was on his deathbed. Somewhere under that hull of blankets he's wearing at least four shirts and three pair of socks. Not to mention how downright grumpy he is, yelling things that would be really hurtful if they weren't coming from a human metapod.  
"Yeah, tell that to the toes I'm gonna lose."  
"Well if you're so cold I could, uh," he nuzzles into where he judges Sam's neck should be by the placement of his eyes. "warm you up."  
"You come near me and I'm throwing you into the fireplace." Steve takes it with a good-natured laugh, even if he secretly was hoping for some action.  
"How about we go someplace warm, then?" Sam's eyes widen.  
"Jamaica?"  
"How about dinner? I think a hot meal should fix you right up." He rolls his eyes but he starts wriggling free of his blanket shell.  
"I still wanna go to Jamaica."

* * *

Anyone who's known him for any length of time knows Sam hates the cold. It makes his bones ache and his thoughts muddle and just generally makes everything suck for him. Cold related activities especially irk him. How was he supposed to have any fun if he was miserable the whole time? The only exception is ice skating; he actually really enjoys it. It's a different kind of cold, the energy you exert skating warms you up and cancels out the chill. Not to brag, but he's pretty good; he can do a figure eight on one foot. And as much as he enjoys skating, Steve loves watching him skate. Even if Sam doesn't notice it the tension falls out of his shoulders to allow his fluid, open movements. When he's on the ice he's nothing short of graceful, nothing less than awe inspiring. Steve even tries to skate with him, despite being the clumsiest person at the whole rink.  
"How can one of the best strategists to ever live be such a klutz? Man, I have watched you kick flip off someone's face and land back on your feet, but you take one step on ice and you look like the first deer to ever walk." He couldn't help but laugh at that, mostly because it was so true. But Sam's patient with him, helping him steady himself and teaching him to sway, not flail. Even when his legs fly from under him and he takes them both down Sam is unfazed, chuckling the whole time they get back to their feet. Though falling on hard, cold ice and getting the wind knocked out of him and making a fool of himself in front of a ton of people sucks, it's the moments where his legs cooperate and a song they like plays over the speaker and they skate along hand in hand that make him keep trying no matter how many times he falls down. Their eyes meet and they both grin like idiots and everything's fine until Steve faceplants again. One fateful Christmas he gets Sam his very own pair of skates, in black leather with his name embroidered along the back. He'd been complaining about the rentals, how they weren't sharpened right sometimes and it made doing tricks harder, or how they never quite fit right; some pairs would pinch, some would be too loose even when they were as tight as possible. When he opens the box he lights up and practically glows, and suddenly the tree looks dimmer than it seemed a minute ago.  
"The skates...but Steve, we looked at these and they were-"  
"It doesn't matter how much they were," he reassures him, mesmerized by the mosaic the Christmas lights throw on Sam's face. "It's something that makes you happy, and I'd give everything for that." They go skating that day, even though Steve can practically still feel the bruises from the last time they went. The new skates are perfect for Sam and Steve only slips twice; a Christmas miracle.  
"You know what would've been better than the skates?"  
"What?"  
"A trip to Jamaica."

* * *

"You have to taste this strawberry daiquiri."  
"What does it taste like?" Sam gives him what could possibly be the moist pointed look in history.  
"Nectar and ambrosia. It tastes like strawberries." But then he's laughing and he's having way too much fun to pretend to be mad for long. The flight to Jamaica wasn't nearly as bad as they anticipated. It was the five hours of delays that almost had them in tears, all because of that damned snow storm. Sure he was a little tired and more than a little jet lagged and a few hours late, but what did he care? Sam was going to Jamaica and nothing in hell could wipe the smile off his face. If he was happy as a clam, Steve was the pearl. Even if he wasn't as giddy as Sam he was pretty excited. They planned to take it easy their first day; walk the beach, check out the gift shops. But that turned into stumbling onto a pier carnival and spending the day on rides, which turned into them relaxing at a bar on the beach, watching the sun set. Steve looks over to Sam, sunning himself like a cat, possibly getting truly warm for the first time since July. As he's watching the waves roll in, painted brilliant shades of red and orange by the sunset he can't help but wish he'd brought his sketchbook.  
"Hey," Sam says quietly, drawing his attention away from the sea. His face is drawn into a peaceful albeit mischievous smile.  
"You know what would be better than this?"  
"What?" He reaches over and takes his hand, and for the first time in months his fingertips aren't made of ice.  
"Nothing."

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely wish Steve luck trying to drag Sam Wilson back home into that snowstorm. Did I mention that figure skater Sam was my favorite Sam?


End file.
